


Candyman

by dontbefancy



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 10:29:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/685918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontbefancy/pseuds/dontbefancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blaine Anderson’s life is not what he envisioned. Enter Kurt Hummel - a man whose life is all he ever wanted and only wishes the same for the sad-eyed, sexy man whose cigarette wouldn’t light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I. Melody

**Author's Note:**

> Huge loads of thanks to my beta and glorious pdf maker, buckeyegrrl for guiding me to the end of this thing. Down to the most miniscule of commas. And ellipses. And em-dashes. B/c damn, those things annoy the hell out of me. But, she doesn't.

"Sixty Spring, please. And, take the long way, would you?"

"What long way would that be, sir?"

Blaine drops his head back against the headrest and considers for a long moment. "Broad, through the Discovery District." He considers his decision as the cab pulls away from the airport curb. "Yeah, that sounds good."

And, as any cabbie would who wants a bigger take than usual, he grants his passenger his wish – a long journey home after a longer journey away.

Blaine has been traveling for three solid weeks, and as much as he can't wait to get home to his own bed to sleep in, his own pot to piss in, his own hook upon which to hang his hat, he's wound up tight – unhappy, unsettled and most definitely uninterested in going home yet.

He directs the cab through a few more unusual turns and before long, they are driving by a small theater abuzz with activity. People are milling about outside before the show begins, enjoying the last few moments of daylight on this beautiful fall day. Without a second thought, he's asking the driver to pull over, tipping him excessively to assure he'll get his carry-on bag to his downtown loft's concierge.

He makes his way through the crowd into the foyer to the windowed ticket office. A huge man with an even more huge smile greets him.

And then, "I'm sorry, Babydoll. Show sold out last week."

"Ah. Better luck next time, I suppose."

Blaine makes his way back outside, leaning against a light post as he smacks a cigarette out of its pouch. As he tries and fails to light it, his mind wanders to days gone by where this was his life – small theater productions, products of years of piano, voice and dance lessons finally culminating in a musical theater degree that now gathers dust in his mother's hope chest. 

Or is it in his guest room closet? 

He tries his lighter one final time, taking its failure and the sold out show as clear indications that despite his brief attempt at spontaneous behavior, the pre-packaged, pre-determined life of Blaine Anderson is all it's ever going to be.

With a defeated sigh, he pockets his lighter and pulls the cigarette from his lips, wondering how long it will take to get yet another cab.

"Here. I've got it."

He turns to the voice, rushed and airy, and holds the cigarette to his lips again catching striking blue eyes that sparkle before disappearing behind the light of his torch. Manicured hands cup the flame from the soft breeze and as the tip of Blaine's cigarette glows orange, the stranger gives him a wink and slaps his lighter shut. "Better get inside – you're going to miss the show!"

The man jogs off, a huge gym bag knocking at his thighs as he disappears into the building, leaving the memory of those sparkling eyes and the scent of woody citrus in his wake. 

"Anyone need an extra ticket?"

The question comes from a gaggle of very young, very beautiful college boys and Blaine takes the free ticket – the boys refusing payment.

"Oh no, honey. Austin ditched us – he can lose the cash."

Blaine chuckles and thanks them again, looking down at his ticket to see what is on the marquee for tonight. 

[ ](http://dont-be-fancy.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/1336/7137)

"Oh, and make sure you get yourself a drink, Gorgeous. Bar's at the end of the hall."

"I definitely will. Thank Austin for his absence."

He goes inside and orders a whiskey sour, following the small crowd in to the black box theater. A table for almost-two sits empty in the second row, so he helps himself, tipping back a sip of the liquor as a familiar drum beat begins. 

"Queens and gentlemen, I bring you…ReVue!"

Blaine sits back with a satisfied grin, the five-piece band converging on the classic, _Sing, Sing, Sing._ He takes his second sip of whiskey as 20 men, dressed in simple black pants, red shirts and black ties dance out and pause before their dramatic vocal entrance. They are in perfect, 40's-style harmonic synchronicity. 

_You, Blaine Anderson, are a fucking genius._

**~~***~~**

ReVue's show is amazing. Creative staging and precise choreography showcase the choir's tight harmonies as they move from ballads to up-tempo numbers capturing the swing era as though they are back in time. 

But, as amazing as the whole of it is, Blaine has eyes for only one. He spots him during the second verse of _Sing, Sing, Sing_ , the blue-eyed beauty who lit his cigarette only minutes before. 

His moves are more graceful than the others', his command of the crowd more enchanting, his demeanor more magnetic. 

He is a showman.

Blaine's second row table gives him just enough lift on the orchestral risers that he can see it all – when he's in back, when he's in front, stage left, stage right, when he flits off-stage and when he flutters back on. 

Blaine follows his every move – lithe and exquisite, practiced and precise.

Halfway through the second set, the familiar chords of _Moonlight Serenade_ begin and a portion of the group spreads out to the audience grabbing random partners for a dance.

And as he chuckles at the gentleman in front of him playing hard-to-get with a red-headed flirt, he sees Mr. Blue Eyes heading right toward him, reaching out a hand with a warm smile and that voice – that musical, delicate voice.

"Dance with me?"

Without a word, Blaine takes the man's hand and ducks into a spin as he is lead in a soft, casual foxtrot, serenaded by the choristers who didn't chose a partner. They silently dance, Blaine following the gentle tug and pull as he's expertly lead across the black box floor.

"Thanks for the light earlier."

"Thanks for the dance now."

His hands are soft and smooth, as if covered with satin. His chest firm, holding the perfect frame, lightly muscled yet warm and welcoming. When he speaks, the wisp of breath in Blaine's ear is enough to make him walk his fingers in a little further, pulling him in just a hair's breadth closer.

And when he takes a breath to speak, he catches the intoxicating scent of fresh sweat and citrus. "Blaine, by the way."

"Kurt." A few more steps, and then, "You're a dancer."

"No. Well, not anymore, no." 

"Pity."

"Pardon?"

"No dancer should ever say _not anymore_."

And with that, Kurt spins Blaine back to his seat, nodding appreciation as he takes his place back into the ensemble. 

"Are you his sweetie?"

The cute couple at the neighboring table is leering, chins on hands, leaning in to hear Blaine's answer, perfect caricatures of the nosey gay.

"No. I've never met him until now."

"Lucky you. He's the one we all watch. And he certainly has his eye on _you_."

Blaine looks back as the group winds up to do a cheesy rendition of _Take the A Train_ and sure enough, Kurt's eyes are on him, darting away quickly to include the whole of the crowd, but as the set continues, so do the stolen glances, the flirtatious smiles and the completely unnecessary winks.

"Well, that works out nicely. Seems I have my eye on him." 

**~~~**~~~**

During intermission, Blaine refills his drink and peruses the program. He’s admittedly jealous of the pure pleasure these men get from performing, unabashed in their joy, in their talent and in their sexuality. Songs that are traditionally sung from men to women get the gender-bending treatment, but his favorites are the forlorn torch songs traditionally sung from women to men. Here, they are passionately crooned to the men who "done them wrong," who they yearn for, who they love.

With another rhythmic drum beat, the second half begins – a call and response from the band:

_Tarzan and Jane were swingin' on a vine_

Three men strut on stage dressed in WWII flight uniforms, complete with short, tight-fitting Ike jackets, perfectly pressed garrison caps, and high-waisted pleated pants.

And enough brassiness – both in their belt buckles and in their attitudes – to turn the black box theater red. 

Taking lead in the perfectly harmonizing trio is Blaine's blue-eyed, foxtrotting, citrus-smelling Kurt.

_Candyman_ fills the theater – all 40's style music with contemporary, naughty lyrics. And this trio is bringing on the sass. The flirt. The raunch. Swiveling hips, pointing fingers, flirtatious sashays all matching the rousing beat. 

But none of it would be half as entertaining, half as sexy if it wasn’t for Kurt, his singing voice is strong – more alto than tenor, but with a depth of tone making it resonant, rich and pure male, even in its highest range. 

Kurt works the crowd like a pro, flirting his way across the front row making every patron feel like they were seeing the show in the privacy of their own living room. At the bridge, he's pulling men in by their ties, singing nose to nose, whoops and hollers rising from the crowd as he pushes one man back only to grab at another. 

_Sweet sugar Candyman_  
He's a one stop, gotcha hot, making all the panties drop  
Sweet sugar Candyman

He's a one stop, got me hot, making my uh _pop  
Sweet sugar Candyman_

He's a one stop, get it while it's hot, baby don't stop

And when he gets to Blaine at the final whispered chant, Kurt lifts to the second row and turns his back to him, straddling Blaine's legs with each word. 

_Sweet sugar…_

At the drum roll, Kurt wiggles his ass, filling Blaine's vision with the juiciest, bounciest booty shake he’s ever had the pleasure of enjoying. 

Kurt looks over his shoulder and winks as he steps down, Blaine hiding a huge grin behind a swig of his drink.

The flirtations continue, Kurt shooting Blaine coy faces at particularly naughty lines, more over-the-shoulder glances complete with a wink and a pucker. When it’s time to take the song home with the long rising diva note, it’s Kurt front and center with his arms in the air, head thrown back, the audience firmly in the palm of his hand. 

And Blaine's heart not too far behind.

**~~***~~**

The second half of the show is equally entertaining as the first, filled with songs from Cole Porter, Gershwin, Duke Ellington and the like. During an especially delightful rendition of _S'Wonderful_ Kurt makes his way to Blaine again, lounging across his lap, one leg kicked up, one hand wrapped around his tumbler as he steals a swig of his watered down whiskey. Not a word is shared, but for the second time in one evening, Blaine smiles. A real, honest-to-goodness smile.

And that's not something he's done a lot of lately.

Before anyone is ready, the show is over, the curtain calls are bowed and the theater begins to empty. Unfortunately, Blaine is no more ready to go home now than he was when he arrived. As people file out, he skims through his phone messages, daring himself to breathe in a bit of the empty theater. 

That's when the ghosts come out to play. The memories. The dreams and illusions of Broadway, of something bigger than himself. 

Dreams bigger than his life allowed him to be.

He stands to take a slow stroll out, nodding to the custodian as he walks by the glorious Steinway Grand in the middle of the black box floor. It's luxurious. Pristine. Begging to be touched.

"May I?"

"You any good?"

"Mmm, I used to be."

"Have at it. Entertain me."

He drapes his jacket over a lone microphone stand and settles his whiskey glass on his handkerchief before settling down, his fingers tracing the smooth ivory of the keys. He's always likened sitting down to a new piano, one he's never played, to that of falling into bed with a new lover. The parts and mechanisms are all the same, but the touch, the give and take from player to instrument is unique, easily learned if they are in tune with one another other, and with themselves. 

It's virginal and salacious all wrapped into one exquisite journey. 

A journey he hasn't taken in entirely too long. Faceless, nameless pick-ups at hotel bars are nothing like an untouched Steinway. Like _this_ Steinway. 

The give on this beauty is a bit more needy than a broken-in piano, the pedals a bit tight to his gentle nudging. But, after a bar or two of uneven notes, he gets the general feel and his melody fills the small theater. 40's-style swing, harmonic and rhythmic, an unnamed song from his own head. He hears the custodian whistling along softly, anticipating his next notes. 

And then, from behind the performance curtain, "I don't know – Nathan left already." There's a pause and then, "It is…I'll go see. Yes, tomorrow at 3, then. Have a good night, Barry."

Blaine keeps playing, matching the rhythm of his made-up tune to the footsteps coming towards him, stopping a few feet from the piano with a gentle gasp. _"It's you."_

He looks up with a slight grin having known immediately who was behind those footsteps; Kurt's distinct voice hadn't left his thoughts since he first heard it. 

Not missing a note of the soft jazzy tune naturally flowing from his fingertips, he replies simply, "It's you."

"You play beautifully."

Blaine winds his song to a close and begins to stand, but Kurt is there at his side, sliding his overstuffed gym bag onto the floor. He's wearing a small fedora to cover his performance-sweaty hair, his clothes are classic street dance wear – over-sized shirt draping open to show a skin tight tank top and just a hint of his pale chest and right shoulder, skinny jeans clinging tightly. Showing everyth—

"Keep playing. It's lovely." And he's standing there, arms folded, leaning against the front edge of the piano blocking the top octave of the keyboard with his perfectly muscled thighs and his perfectly round ass that had, not more than an hour ago, been shaking in his face.

Blaine clears his throat and sits to begin again, this time sliding into _Body and Soul_ , a favorite of his, glancing up to see if Kurt would take the vocals. 

He doesn't. At Blaine's lifted eyebrow, he scoffs. "I'm _listening_." And after a few more bars where Blaine fills the vocal line into his accompaniment he asks, "Do _you_ sing?"

"Not anymore."

"Hmmm…you don't dance anymore. You don't sing anymore…"

"I don’t play anymore either, truth be told."

"You're playing now."

"That I am." He ramps the end of the chorus and Kurt steps away from the piano to flit over to the maintenance man, scooping him into his arms and swirling him around the performance space amidst grunts and complaints and _Mr. Hummel, for pete's sake_ , all of which Kurt ignores until Blaine brings the song to its natural conclusion.

"Bow for Mister...?"

"Anderson."

"Bow for Mister Anderson, Merle."

"If I bend over, I'll never stand again. Are you locking up or am I?"

"Go home. I've got it."

"Good evening, gentlemen. And Mr. Hummel?"

"Yes, Merle?"

"Don't ever do that again. My wife would have my hide if she knew I was dancing with someone prettier than her."

Kurt laughs, triggering a melody in Blaine's head, so he begins to play again, trying to keep focus when Kurt hikes himself up to sit on the extended music deck of the piano. Blaine watches out of the corner of his eye as Kurt cups his knee with his hands, his long legs falling easily over the keyboard, his body swaying with the movement of the song. Kurt's eyelids drift shut as he gently mouths the words to _But Not For Me,_ Blaine accompanying his silent solo.

"Sing for me again."

Kurt smiles but doesn't sing, still swaying to the song, a gentle _no_ slipping from his lips, holding perfectly in the 'o,' a pillow of unintended invitation. Blaine watches him and catches light reflecting off metal accents on the sleeves of Kurt’s shirt, running down the full length of his long, graceful arms. They're zippers. 

_Good god._

Blaine's fingers falter but he quickly rights himself, filling in an improvisational bridge while Kurt sways and begins humming the lyrics for the next verse.

And Blaine asks a question that had been twisting in his mind all evening.

"You're an amazing performer, Kurt. Why are you wasting your talent in a two-bit theater in Columbus Ohio?"

Kurt peels his eyes open, looking down to Blaine with a gentle smile, slight irritation clear by his raised eyebrow. "175 people didn't think I was wasting my talent tonight."

Blaine nods concession and swirls the bridge back into the chorus. Kurt's eyes slip shut again, mouthing the lyrics until the end when the gentle smile he offers is no longer tinged with irritation.

"You're an amazing pianist, Blaine. Why waste your talent in a two-bit theater in Columbus Ohio?"

Blaine suitably blushes. "One person doesn't seem to think I'm wasting my talent tonight."

"See? Sometimes it's good enough to know you made someone's night better."

Blaine trails his eyes up the length of Kurt's body, up the zipper of his sleeve, wondering if it's actually functioning. A puff of air escapes his lips as his eyes rest into Kurt's. "You've made mine infinitely better."

Kurt smiles and reaches out, brushing his knuckles down Blaine's cheek, taking his breath away with one simple touch. "Play me something else. Something…sultry."

"Sultry, huh?" Blaine tickles around at the keys as he tries to come up with something _sultry_ , finally settling on _The Man I Love,_ inviting Kurt to sing again, and this time he does, quietly, beautifully, his eyes never leaving Blaine. 

He comes to what would be the bridge, the piano solo, but stops the song instead, arppegiating the final chord up the keyboard, ending with his fingers under Kurt's dangling legs. He looks up to Kurt, his eyes once a bright, clear blue now darker, greyer. 

"That was your big solo. Why did you stop?"

Blaine swallowed to gather his voice. "Your eyes…are burning my skin. Why are you staring?"

Kurt's parted lips close into a soft smile, but his eyes remain dark and wanting. "I keep wondering if your fingers would burn mine."

Blaine can't speak, can't break his gaze, his eyes tracing the full of Kurt's face – his soft lush lips pulling for attention from the hard, defined lines of his jaw. His nose slightly tipped up adding a childishness to his face that is otherwise all grown man. 

And then, Kurt breaks their trance with that voice. That breathy, musical voice, deeper now in their whispered tones. "Why did you come to the show tonight?"

"To relax. To unwind from weeks of travel."

Kurt tilts his head and scoots closer, resting his feet on the bench next to Blaine. "And have you? Relaxed?"

"I have, thank you." Blaine looks to the keyboard, ghosting his fingers over the keys, not pressing, not wanting to miss the sound of a single breath between them. He dares to look up to Kurt, swallowing thickly as their eyes met again. His voice is dry and raspy when he speaks. "Why didn't you leave out back with everyone else?"

"I wanted to see who was playing so beautifully…and I have." Kurt scoots closer still, swinging his leg up and over Blaine's head to straddle him, the inside of his calves bracketing Blaine's shoulders, his crotch inches from Blaine's face.

"So." Blaine looks up through his thick lashes, his eyes settling up on Kurt's shoulder, the pale skin there and the curve and dip of his clavicle shadowed behind the fabric of the tank, begging for the wet swipe of his tongue. He lifts one hand from the keyboard, daring to run his fingers up the length Kurt's calf. He licks his lips wishing for a taste of Kurt and maybe, one more taste of that whiskey. "Then, I guess that means our business for this evening is finished."

"Indeed it does."

Blaine's eyes and hands drop and he pushes back to leave. Before he gets too far, Kurt leans forward, the open neck of his shirt dropping below the curve of a shoulder, and curls his fingers around Blaine's loosened tie. He pulls him in, warm breath ghosting across Blaine's face. "But, Mister Anderson…what comes after business?" 

With a lift of his eyebrows, Kurt lets go of Blaine's tie and pulls his leg back over his head and hops off of the piano, picking up his gym bag. He adjusts his fedora and walks toward the hallway exit, leaving Blaine to sit speechless, left only to imagine the taste of Kurt's skin.

But then Kurt stops at the door and with a click of his heel, turns back to him, his voice firm yet playful, his eyes shining in the darkened hallway. "Well? Are you coming or not?"

**~~~**~~~**

"Mind if I smoke?"

"Mind if I share?" Blaine knocks out a cigarette and puts it to his lips, cupping his hand over Kurt's when he brings his lighter to the tip. Their eyes lock again as it glows in the darkness, street lights virtually blocked by the leaves of the overgrown trees lining the street. 

"This is one of my favorite neighborhoods in the fall – the colors are so gorgeous."

Kurt picks Blaine's cigarette from his mouth, taking a slow drag only to put it back, brushing his finger along Blaine's bottom lip as he takes hold, still rambling about the seasons or the leaves or something. Blaine can't concentrate. "It'll be even prettier in a few weeks. And then, the walk gets really noisy. That's my favorite. Crunching leaves under my boots, that crackling sound when the wind blows through the few leaves that hang on tight."

Kurt falls silent, thin trails of smoke circling their heads as they walk and while Blaine doesn't particularly care, he has to ask, "Where are we going?"

"My place." Kurt stops and cocks his head at Blaine, watching the smoke pour out of his mouth after a particularly long pull. "I'm being rude. Is it okay if we go to—I have wine."

"It's fine. I think you stole my night quite a few hours ago."

"I can give it back if you want."

"I don’t."

They cross a brick-paved street and Blaine looks up and chuckles as they turn into Kurt's complex—a contemporary, 16-unit apartment building popping out of the traditional architecture of the neighborhood. Somehow it seems to fit this enigma of a man, all artsy and quirky and seductively confident, yet genuinely sweet, a flicker of shyness brushing across his cheeks on any particular given moment.

He snuffs out his cigarette in the tray outside Kurt's door, squeaking when Kurt yanks him inside with a giggle, pressing him against the foyer wall as he kicks the door closed behind them. Before he can focus, Kurt's lips are on his, wet and soft, the firm press of his hand cupping his jaw, as he tilts Blaine's head just enough to fit their mouths together perfectly. The hushed sounds of their kisses echo around the high ceilings, broken only by soft moans as their tongues meet and they pull back for a breath only to push forward again for more. 

When Kurt slows and loosens his grip, grazing his teeth along Blaine's bottom lip, his smile is devilish, eyes darkening as he watches Blaine's tongue follow the trail Kurt left on his lips as if grasping for just one more taste. 

The taste of Kurt and whiskey.

"Jesus." Kurt swallows thickly smiles as Blaine's gaze falls to Kurt's shoulder, pale and strong. 

With a shy smile, Blaine slides a hand up Kurt's arm and grasps the zipper-pull on his sleeve, tugging gently, his breath catching when it moves down and down, the weight of the front of Kurt's shirt going with it. Blaine leans in and presses a kiss to the curve of Kurt's arm, moaning at the soft skin there and the warmth of Kurt's hand as it sinks into his hair.

"It works."

"It does." Kurt tugs at Blaine's hair and they kiss again, slow and slick, Blaine's fingers slipping around the bare of Kurt's arm. "I think I'd like to take a shower."

Blaine blinks back, the mood suddenly scrambled. "Oh. Oh-kay. I- I have some calls…" 

Kurt trails a finger under Blaine's chin and smiles, soft and seductive – like his kisses. "I was kind of hoping you'd join me."

**~~~**~~~**

The next kiss is all Blaine, surging forward causing Kurt to stumble on the stairs, giggling beneath their lips, one chasing the other as they jostle to find purchase again. Instead, they simply use the momentum to get up the stairs, kissing and clawing at clothing, jackets, shirts, ties – god only knows where Kurt's hat landed – all being unceremoniously dumped somewhere between the first and second floors. 

By the time they've made it into Kurt's bedroom, they're topless, breathless and reconsidering a shower, simply wanting to fall onto the bed and tangle together until the reality of tomorrow stirs them apart.

But, as they pause, foreheads together and eyes more focused on each other's mouths than eyes, Kurt kisses the tip of Blaine's nose and pulls him into the bathroom.

"Bath or shower?"

"Naked. Hot water. I don't care." 

Kurt's kissing him again, pushing him back against the counter, his satiny hands smooth yet demanding over his chest, his lips softer than Blaine could have ever imagined yet completely in control of every move, every sweep of their tongues, and if possible, every moan that escapes from Blaine's throat.

“Hike up.” Blaine feels the heat of Kurt's gaze as his arms flex to push himself onto the counter. He spreads his legs and runs his hands up Kurt's arms as their lips briefly meet again, Kurt delicately dotting kisses up his jaw to his ear, pulling tenderly on the soft flesh of his lobe. His hands cup at Blaine’s ass, pulling him in closer and all motion momentarily stops as they feel their erections push together through their pants. 

Blaine shudders and Kurt almost growls at the contact, Blaine's fingers scrabbling up Kurt’s chest – biting and sucking at the pale skin on his shoulders and neck, finally getting to dip his tongue into the valley along his clavicle, even more divine than he had imagined. He curls his calves around Kurt's legs, pulling him in closer and closer as they find friction together – each new touch eliciting gasps and hisses that echo through the tiled room. 

This kind of heat, this kind of soft desperation has been absent from Blaine's life for too long. It's been a succession of quickies at conferences, men as lonely as him vying for attention at hotel bars. No one really cares, no one truly desires. 

They take a breath and share shy smiles, their fingers arguing at Blaine's belt. Kurt finally wins, pinning Blaine’s hands down on the counter. “No. Let me. Lean back.”

He scoots back, resting his head against the wall, watching Kurt's fingers, deft and quick, divest Blaine of his trousers, his boxers, all of it in one swift movement. Blaine shivers as his bare ass hits the granite counter, watching as Kurt's fingers slide up his legs, dots of kisses following the trail. Blaine's groan fills the room after a hickey-leaving bite to his thigh and Kurt stands, lips swollen and red, simply admiring.

"You're more beautiful than I imagined."

"You imagined?" Blaine nervously runs his hand through his own hair, a shyness at Kurt's hungry gaze shocking even himself. But then, when their eyes meet again, he lets his hand drop, skirting down his abdomen to lazily take hold of himself, slow strokes keeping a rhythm of their conversation.

"Oh, I imagined." His eyes drop to watch Blaine's hand work over himself, the tip of his tongue peeking out before biting his bottom lip. "I failed tremendously." Kurt grazes his hands up the inside of Blaine's thighs, "…so fucking gorgeous," his eyes taking in the full of Blaine's body. 

Kurt's eyes never leave Blaine's when he lowers himself, putting a hand on either side of Blaine's hips, and tenderly kisses the tip of his cock, gathering just a hint of the pre-cum puddled there. Blaine's breath hitches as he continues to slowly stroke himself, needing relief from Kurt's intense gaze, feeling properly fucked with nary a touch. 

"Do you feel good, Blaine?"

"Yes."

Kurt licks his lips and moves Blaine's hand away, resting the flat of his tongue at the base of Blaine’s cock, pulling slowly up the length of the thick vein there. Blaine's moan rattles deep in his chest as Kurt lavishes his head and ridge with swirls of his tongue. 

"Beautiful _and_ delicious."

And then, without warning he curls his lips around the darkened tip and works his mouth down, opening his throat to take him in whole. 

“Jesus… _fuck_.” Blaine resists the urge to buck, jamming his hands in Kurt’s hair, holding his breath as Kurt pulls back up with a wet, languid suck, pulling in a thin string of spit. A tender kiss seals the deal. 

Kurt looks up through his lashes, his eyes dark and seductive, his voice thick and raspy with want. “Let me go start the water.”

“You…" When Blaine's voice cracks, he clears his throat and tries again, feeling like a pre-pubescent boy, "You are a horrible tease.”

"Mmm…" Kurt takes Blaine's hand and kisses each fingertip, curling it back around Blaine's cock with a squeeze. "I bet you can keep yourself occupied."

As Kurt spins towards the tub, Blaine lazily strokes himself, stopping to lick his palm and watch Kurt remove his jeans with a showy shimmy and wiggle as he kicks them across the floor. He bends dramatically to start the water, swaying his ass to an unheard tune.

Maybe Blaine's shy evaluation had been a bit hasty. Kurt is wicked. A tramp. A delicious, wicked tramp.

And he's still performing. Still on stage. Except this time? It's a private show.

Unwilling to be a spectator for one more minute, Blaine hops off the counter and goes to Kurt, slipping an arm around his waist, running his hand along the line of Kurt's cock. He nips and suckles on his back and shoulders and Kurt leans back into his touch, hissing as Blaine's fingers slip beneath the waistband of his underwear taking a firm hold of him. "In a hurry?"

"I have all night. I'd just rather spend it touching _you._ "

**~~~**~~~**

The shower is almost clinical, save for the stolen glances, the slippery kisses, the tongues trailing across lines of necks as one leans back to rinse their hair. Once clean, the residue of their long, exhausting days washed away, they meet again, half-hard cocks bumping together in the steam, lips wet and searching. 

Kurt pulls back and spins Blaine to face the wall, licking the shell of his ear before pressing in against him. "I think we missed your back." Blaine reaches up to twine his fingers in Kurt's as he leans forward, his body pliant to the simple touch of Kurt's lips on his skin. "Don't move."

Kurt untangles his fingers and soaps up the sponge, holding it over Blaine's shoulder blades to let the sudsy water trickle down his back, between the cheeks of his ass, down between his thighs. As Blaine arches back, Kurt presses forward, wrapping his arm around Blaine's waist. They're chest to back as Kurt's cock slips in between the firm flesh of his ass, slicked perfectly from the soap, the water, the gentle motion of their give and take. 

It's so little and so much, intimate and impersonal, but mostly, mostly delicious. Blaine rests his head on the tile, only able to focus on the thick of Kurt's cock and then the grip on his own as Kurt slips his hand from his waist to take hold of him, stroking slowly, matching the rhythm against his ass. 

He's speechless, almost soundless but for the puffs of air escaping each time the tip of Kurt's cock grazes at his hole, sliding away again – a tease, a taste of what's to come. 

"Do you want to stay in here?" Kurt groans when Blaine reaches his arm back and pulls him in closer, his nails digging into the flesh of his hips. "Or take it into the bedroom?"

"Mmmm…." It's not a moan, it's not a groan, it's just noise deep from within his chest. No one ever asks what he wants; they just do. He just does. And at the moment, _because_ he asked, Blaine couldn't give a flying fuck where, he just wants. Kurt. All over him. Inside of him. Around, through, he doesn't care. 

Kurt waits for a more coherent answer, continuing his slow torturous rocking and stroking, pulling the soft of Blaine's earlobe into his mouth, his breath hot on his wet skin. "I don't speak caveman, love."

Blaine chuckles, jolting them, Kurt's cock now pushing at the rim of his asshole which makes them both hiss and stand straight, Blaine spinning in Kurt's arms for a hot, desperate kiss, hands knocking into each other as they grab at each other's faces, thighs, elbows, cocks bumping and annoying and _god._ "I don't…," more kisses and teeth scraping against jaw lines and, "…fucking care." And when Kurt kisses him one more time, holding his gaze until he gets an answer, he still doesn't know. All he sees are the blue of Kurt's eyes sparkling in the bright lights of the bathroom. "Bed. Now."

The water is off and Kurt steps out, turning to pull Blaine in for another kiss, "Wrap your legs around me."

"You think you can carry me?" Even with his words of doubt, he does as asked, grabbing a towel as Kurt carries him into the bedroom. They laugh as Blaine shimmies the towel over each of their heads for a quick dry and fall onto the bed with an _oof._

"Yes, I think I can."

And then words become superfluous, interruptions of discovery and experimentation, Blaine as Kurt's subject, pliant and acquiescent to his wishes and desires, yet completely fulfilling his own. 

Simply watching Kurt work his mouth over Blaine's skin, his tongue swirl around his nipples, his eyelashes fluttering as though Blaine tastes of fine chocolate. Hearing the sighs sung when Blaine's cock throbs under the twist and press of Kurt's fingers as if pleasuring him is the greatest joy imaginable. And feeling him, the weight of his thigh thrown across his own, the press of Kurt's lubed finger to his hole and then the glorious push inside taunting, teasing, stretching with another until finally, finally he's on his knees and Kurt's hand is running up and down his back as his cock eases its way inside, filling him long and slow until there's nothing left but the urge to move, move, move.

And move they do, the drag of Kurt pulling out almost completely and back in, his puffed grunt of _fuck_ as he bottoms out a second time until a steady rhythm is found and Blaine is pushing back to meet him, taking, taking all of him, every touch, every kiss, every thrust, every word of endearment ghosting over his skin. _Beautiful. Tight. Sexy. Birthmark. Angel's kiss. Good, good, so fucking good._

And when Kurt's hand slips around Blaine's waist to take hold of him, his head drops down, completely in his own world of hot heat, soft lips, hard bodies, sweat, sex, his body on fire with it all. 

But Kurt changes the game. "No."

"N-no?" Blaine's looking up and back reaching a hand back to hold Kurt's. "Tell me."

"Lift up. Lift your…" Kurt slides his hand out of Blaine's and splays his fingers across Blaine's abdomen, pressing even as the muscles quiver at his touch. "…sit up. On my thighs."

So he does and the new position causes him to gasp out, Kurt grazing over his prostate with every thrust. He lays his head back onto Kurt's shoulder and again, "No. Head up. Look."

And Blaine lifts his head looking forward following Kurt's gaze, their reflection clear in the mirror on Kurt's dresser and the moan that escapes Blaine's mouth is raunchy and tainted. 

"Yeah. See? Don’t hide from me. Look at you…you're gorgeous."

"Mmmm…I'd rather look at you."

"Look at _us_ then." Kurt rests complexly back on his haunches, stopping movement, nipping at Blaine's neck when he unashamedly whines. "Come on. Come out and play." His hand curls around Blaine's cock again, lazy and unmeasured, dotting tongue-led kisses along his shoulder, catching glances in their shared reflection, Blaine lifts off of Kurt's thighs, knowing what Kurt wants, but so unsure he can just let it go. "Dance again, Blaine. _Dance with me_." 

"Oh fuck."

Their eyes meet in the mirror and then Blaine turns to Kurt, brushing their lips together and like a slow uncoiling spool, that man who's been hidden and closed away for so many years slips out of his chains. Blaine swirls his hips around Kurt's thighs, the motion twisting up his body, up and out his fingers as they sink into his own hair, his head falling back against Kurt's shoulder as the twist comes again and again and he's moving them, moving Kurt inside of him and just as smoothly Kurt joins the dance meeting his motions, their lips clumsily joining, moans and sighs building and building as their bodies writhe together in perfect synchronicity, an improved dance of glorious bliss.

And then it's beautiful chaos with _oh god please,_ and _don't stop,_ and _so gorgeous_ and then _yes, yes, YES!_ as Blaine uncoils completely, coming up and onto his chest, into Kurt's hand as he strokes him through it stopping only when his own body snaps, spilling into Blaine, a cry so beautiful it fills the room with the sounds of pure euphoric joy. 

They fall to the mattress in a heap, and Blaine starts chuckling, pulling Kurt to him, kissing any slip of skin he can reach until he has Kurt's face cupped in his hands, still breathless, Kurt's porcelain skin blotched and perfect, completely spent. "What's so funny?"

Blaine kisses him, sweeping his tongue into his mouth and pulling back with a wet smack, his eyes searching Kurt's for answers he simply shouldn't have. And yet…

"Who _are_ you?"


	2. II. Harmony

Blaine swipes the last drops of soup from his bowl with the crust of almost stale bread, popping it into his mouth with a satisfied moan. They've been sitting here in Kurt's living room, the soft pile of a sheepskin rug tickling at their bare legs while devouring a virtual smorgasbord of odds and ends from Kurt's kitchen – fruits and cheeses, crackers and homemade soup. 

"I'm stuffed. I don't think I've had anything to eat since I was in Chicago."

"Oh my god." Kurt plucks up a bar of dark chocolate he'd brought in for a quick dessert. "We need to fatten up the calf."

"For slaughter?"

"No. For celebration."

"You _do_ know they celebrated with the fattened calf…by slaughtering it, right?"

"Shhh. Don't mess up my metaphor."

"Darlin', your metaphor is messed up _on its own_." 

"Do you want some chocolate or not?" Kurt hovers a chunk in front of Blaine's mouth and he takes it eagerly. 

"Mmm. So, what are we celebrating?"

Kurt lets the corner of his piece of chocolate sit just inside his mouth to melt, giving it a lick and a look before popping the entirety of it in his mouth. "A cigarette that wouldn't light, and um..." Kurt looks Blaine up and down with a wicked smirk, his eyes landing on Blaine's biceps. "…and borrowed t-shirts that are too tight."

Blaine smiles and flexes dramatically. "Are you objectifying me?"

"Oh sweetheart…" Kurt leans over for a chocolaty kiss. "…you'd better believe it."

And after he's done blushing, Blaine asks again – less incredulous, still as curious. "So, Kurt Hummel. You never answered my question. Who _are_ you?"

"Hmmm, yes. Well. I'm a..." The corners of Kurt’s mouth quirk up slightly, and he starts two more times before rolling his eyes. "I haven't given my elevator speech in a few years. I'm rusty."

"I'll wait." The truth of the matter is, Blaine could sit and watch Kurt think and speak and re-think and re-speak for hours. His eyes dance and flicker with each new idea; his mouth slips around words like a mitten warming cold fingers.

"Is that what you want? My elevator speech?"

"I want the truth. As you see it."

"In 50 words or less."

"I have a feeling you're entirely too interesting for 50 words."

Kurt straightens his back as if preparing to give a proper essay answer in history class. "Okay. I am…a performing arts geek who…has found a way to make a living and make a life all at the same time."

"And what do you do for a living?"

"I run the theater."

"You run the theater? The one I insulted only a few hours ago?"

"One and the same."

"You know, we were alone on a very quiet street. You had every opportunity to stab me for that."

"Yes, that would have been sensible. If you were dead, I couldn't have had my way with you."

"Ah, yes. Well, sex saves the day again."

"Only _good_ sex saves the day, my dear."

Kurt's eyes glisten and dance again and Blaine wonders if he could bottle the feeling it puts in his gut. He'd make a mint reselling it to lonely businessmen. "My day has been officially saved."

"Likewise." Their gaze lingers and Kurt breaks the spell by tossing a grape Blaine's way, clapping happily when he catches it in his teeth. And then he continues his story. "It is a nice facility though. I'm more insulted that you didn't know we existed. I obviously need to tweak my marketing campaign."

"I've heard of it before, but always associated it with children's theater."

"Yep, that's who lives there full-time. We have a rehearsal hall, a 350-seat theater and the black box you saw tonight. When the kids aren't using it, we rent it to other theater companies to use. Businesses book it for big meetings--"

"So, you're not a performer by profession."

"Did you think I was?"

"Yes. You're very good."

"Thank you. None of the guys in the group are, actually. We use contract musicians for the band, there are some music teachers in the full group and our accompanist teaches at Capital, but…we all just do it for fun."

"Well, it's obvious you love it."

"Did you?"

"Love watching? I couldn't keep my eyes off of you."

"No, I mean…" Kurt kisses Blaine's cheek. "You are the sweetest thing. I meant, did you enjoy performing. When you did?"

Blaine recoils away from the ease of the conversation, getting up and grabbing their glasses. "Refill on your wine?"

"Sure." Kurt follows him, covering Blaine's hand on the wine cooler's door handle with his own. "I didn't mean to pry."

"No, you're okay." Blaine selects the _pinot gris_ and uncorks the bottle, taking a sniff before pouring. "I just haven't thought about it for a long time."

"Bad memories?"

"No. Good ones, actually. Missed memories."

Kurt hooks his pinky into Blaine's and walks them back to the living room, stealing a quick kiss and another piece of chocolate. "Why did you quit?"

Blaine watches the chocolate disappear into Kurt's mouth and then dares himself to look into Kurt's eyes – eyes that clearly weren't going to let this conversation go unanswered. "Money. Mostly. And…to keep my father off my back."

"You work for your father?"

"I do."

"I'm not sure I understand..." 

"I took piano, dance, voice as a kid, and he'd be okay with it as long as I had time for Little League too." Blaine looks pointedly at Kurt, waiting for him to get the full of what he was saying.

And, it didn't take long. "Ah."

"Then when I had the gall to major in theater in college, he financially cut me off. So, I graduated in a shit-ton of debt and couldn't get work. I got a few parts in the little theater companies here in town and bagged groceries at the Giant Eagle in German Village. I had a blast, but it wasn't paying my loans or rent."

"So what? He gave you a job if you left the arts?"

"That was the deal, and I was drowning. So I took it."

Kurt spins his finger around the rim of his wine glass, his refill going otherwise untouched. "When did you come out?"

"To them? When I was 16."

"How'd that go?"

Blaine smiles, the memory of that day, keeping any joy from his eyes. "In light of what I just told you, how do you _imagine_ it went?"

Kurt nods and continues circling his finger around the rim of his glass, finally dipping a finger in for a taste. "Seems to me Daddio just wants to make sure you don't _look_ gay. He can ignore the fact that you _are_ gay if he can clothe you in Businessman 2022."

"You don't have a filter, do you?"

"I—I didn't mean to offend, I just—“ Kurt stops and takes a deep breath. “No. No, I don’t always have a filter."

"You're right though. It's all about appearances." Blaine takes a swig of his wine, his eyes landing on a particularly bold piece of art he had yet to have noticed in the low-lit room. The colors are bright like the rest of the apartment, the obscure images smooth, calming, engagingly mysterious – much like the apartment's tenan--. "Oh my god."

[](http://dont-be-fancy.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/1336/7860)

Kurt turns to Blaine's line of vision and smiles. "Human flower. Georgia O'Keefe."

"That's a vagina."

"It's a human flower, Blaine. With colors perfect for my living room." But Kurt is biting back a laugh and Blaine is blushing to the tips of his toenails and really. A _humanvaginaflower_ simply should not surprise him in the least. 

For Kurt, appearances _were_ reality, not coverings for the truths hidden underneath.

"I need one of those. Could hang it in Dad's office."

Kurt laughs and finally takes a sip of his wine. "So, besides decorate, what do you for him that takes you out of town so often?" 

"He owns an equity firm. We buy small companies and then consolidate. The company line is _everyone wins_ , yet my job is to go in after the deal and smooth all the hurt feelings – clean up the messes that come with lost jobs and unfulfilled promises."

"So, your dad eats companies for dinner and you're what? His bus boy?"

Blaine is stunned at how unaware Kurt really is. He's sitting at the coffee table in the same zipper-sleeved sweater from the theater, bare-shouldered, now bare-assed, legs curled up to his chest just begging Blaine to leer and desire and forget whatever it is they're talking about. And Blaine's not thinking Kurt is doing it intentionally, it's just that he's so fucking comfortable in his skin, in himself, in his home, with his thoughts and dreams and feelings and sexuality and life that he doesn't consider how he affects anyone else. 

How he is pulling things out of Blaine – things he has kept trapped inside for years – and at the same time making him imagine unzipping that god damned sweater with his teeth and suckling marks all over every inch of his porcelain skin. 

And it's unnerving. In the most pleasurably confounding way. So, his own filter slips a little.

"Is your life your own, Kurt?" And Blaine sucks in a breath, surprised at his own honesty. And at the fact that he's not sure if he's prodding into Kurt's life – or his own.

"Yes. Completely." Kurt's gaze is hot on his skin again and Blaine most definitely decides the prodding is of his own life. Kurt's is right here, splayed before him – and has been from the moment he lit Blaine's cigarette only hours ago. "You can get yours back, you know."

"I _don't_ know."

"Look, you have no business being _anyone's_ busboy. Especially your father's." Blaine winces. Hearing that once was bad enough. Twice? "I didn't filter again, did I?"

"No. You're fine, though. It's just…I don't know how to _take_ it back." He sees Kurt in his comfort and assuredness and sighs. "It all just seems so out of contr--." Blaine hears himself, his voice breaking, his exhaustion clear and his brokenness coming to the surface in a way he is simply not prepared for. "I'm sorry. I'm not normally this transparent. Even with myself."

"Maybe you should be. It's quite attractive."

They stare for long moments, Kurt running his finger around his wine glass rim again, dipping into it and sucking his finger dry. And Blaine finally has to ask what has been swirling around in his head since Kurt opened the door to his apartment. 

"Why did you pick me?" 

" _Pick_ you?" Kurt's eyebrows lift and a flare of irritation darts across the coffee table where Blaine actually flinches to avoid its heat. "I don’t make it a habit of bringing boys home after shows, if that's what you're implying."

"No! It's not. No." Kurt's lips are pursed, his eyes flashing an emotion Blaine couldn't define if he had to. It's most definitely a look he'd just as soon never see again. "I'm sorry. It's just…why me? Why did you pursue _me_?"

Kurt studies Blaine for a moment longer and he reaches for Kurt's hand. Kurt's eyes soften and he takes Blaine's hand in his kissing his fingertips just as he did earlier in the evening, one-two-three-four, his gaze intense, studying Blaine's every move. "It was your eyes." 

"M-my eyes?"

Kurt nods and laces his fingers in Blaine's never disconnecting his intense stare. "First, they're just…beautiful. Your lashes. The intense color. They're all I really saw when I lit your cigarette."

"It's all I remembered of you, too. Well, that and how good you smelled."

Kurt blushes and Blaine decides he needs to try to get him to do that more often because it happens so quickly yet so visibly – like he's digitally altered, a gradation of pink bleeding up from his chest – dear god, his chest that is just slightly peeking from that damned sweater, hinting, taunting – to the tips of his ears. "And then I looked for you at the show, and there you were."

"I didn't even have a ticket, you know."

"How'd you get in?"

And Blaine tells him and Kurt laughs a soft musical sort of laugh. Then Kurt tells him that when he leaned in to pull him up for that first dance at the show, he realized that the amber color of Blaine's eyes matched the amber color of his whiskey. "You made me thirsty." 

"Kurt…"

"And then you held on to me like a dancer. And I recognized it and you recognized that I recognized it and then I was back to your eyes. You said _not anymore,_ and Blaine – you're too beautiful to have such sadness in your eyes."

"But, I'm not sad." But Kurt keeps looking at him and his fingers are tracing the veins on his hands, and Blaine can feel him reaching in to find more of him, unspooling the twisted mess just under the surface and against all better judgment, he's no longer even slightly unnerved. "Tired, maybe. Empty, possibly. Not sad."

"Is there a difference between empty and sad?"

Blaine can't answer that. His instinct says yes but his heart, that thing that has been empty and sad and tired for so long, tells him that _no,_ there is no difference. "You can't be my savior, you know."

"I don't want to be. But, I just hate to see someone who wants it – _and can have it –_ not even try anymore."

"What makes you think I want it?"

"I heard you play. I felt you in my arms, in the theater…in my bed." Kurt stands and holds out a hand for Blaine. 

He takes it and Kurt pulls him to a corner cabinet where he flips on music, and curls Blaine close to him, moving them effortlessly across the wooden floors.

And Blaine falls into it, into Kurt's arms. Into the motion of the music, humming along to the tune Peggy Lee sings, her _Fever_ becoming theirs. 

_You give me fever_  
When you kiss me  
Fever when you hold me tight

Kurt effortlessly leads and Blaine willingly lets him, innately feeling the next move, Kurt's body and the motion of the song propelling them together.

Because that's what music does. It's what music _is_ – an extension of the thoughts and feelings that have no words. 

And here comes this man and he puts skin on it and puts words to it and Blaine still doesn't know Kurt's answer to his question _Who are you,_ but suddenly, and especially when Kurt starts to speak again, he doesn't need to know any longer. 

"Isn't this what used to make you breathe?"

"Yes."

"Then…how do you…how can you _possibly_ breathe without it?"

Kurt spins them around, lift and fall, the cool air rushing around their bare legs, drying the last bits of dampness from their shower-wet hair. Music becoming life between them. "I don't…I don't know anymore."

And the song slows and stills and Kurt pulls Blaine in closer, the passion for music, for understanding, for expression so strong that Blaine wonders how he's breathing _now._

And then Kurt reaches in one more time. 

"Don't you _want_ to breathe again?"

**~~~**~~~**

Blaine stirs and stretches as the morning light peeks in through the blinds, stripes of light breaking their lines over the curves of his body. He's disoriented for a moment, a feeling he's more than accustomed to as he's never in the same city for more than a few days at a time. Here though, the smell of fresh coffee and citrus jars his senses and he remembers.

_"Don't you_ want _to breathe again?"_

And he fell into the idea of it, into the blue of Kurt's eyes, the quiet leading into the dark recesses of his soul. 

And then his phone vibrated, the sound cutting through the bathroom floor above, still seated securely in the pocket of his discarded pants.

Their gaze lifted to the sound together and Kurt's eyes, wide and hopeful, met Blaine's, filled with the sense of obligation and responsibility that has been dictating his every move for years. "I—I should probably go."

"No."

"No?" Blaine stepped back from Kurt's arms and bent to gather their wine glasses. "I have things – I really need to go."

"Please don't. What can possibly be important at 1 in the morning?"

Blaine opened his mouth to answer and stopped himself. Before he could try to bullshit another attempt, Kurt's mouth was on his and he had to be honest, there wasn't anything important at 1 in the morning. Except this. This kiss. This man who was making his mind swirl and his gut twist and for the umpteenth time, his dick hard.

Blaine sits up and has to chuckle at the state of Kurt's bedroom. The sheets and duvet are…well, if there were rafters, they'd be hanging from them. Pillows litter the floor and the bed and in the midst of this room that looks, smells and after Blaine smacks his lips together, he realizes even tastes like sex, his suit is properly hung on a wooden hanger from a hook on the door. His shirt is carefully draped across the bottom of the bed, his tie gracefully placed atop it.

He puts his dress shirt on, rolling up his sleeves and leaving it unbuttoned, tossing his tie over the suit hanger, and goes off in search of Kurt.

And that coffee.

And when he gets to the living floor of the loft he stops cold. Peggy Lee is wafting through the room again and Kurt is singing and dancing to her music, a party of one. His eyes are closed, his arms loose and free, occasionally lifting in the air only to drape over his head. His hands drop and slide down his body, grasping at the hem of his very fitted t-shirt, trying to stretch it down over everything that is naked beneath. 

And everything. Is naked beneath.

Blaine remembers he hasn't breathed in the length of at least two lines. 

_If you come to me hungry you know I'm gonna fill you full of grits_  
If it's lovin' you're likin', I'll kiss you and give you the shiverin' fits  
'Cause I'm a woman! W-O-M-A-N, I'll say it again

Blaine creeps up to him, maneuvering himself to try to stay behind Kurt until he's closer and simply grabs at his hand, spinning him into himself, stifling Kurt's gasp and blush with a kiss, soft-lipped but forceful, insured to give shivering fits. "You are ridiculous." 

Kurt sings his reply, ignoring Blaine's laughter. "'Cause I'm a woman! W-O-M-A-N, and that's all."

"No." Blaine presses himself closer, skimming his hands down Kurt's back, cupping his bare ass cheeks in his hands. "You most definitely are not."

Kurt hisses as Blaine latches onto his neck, suckling and soothing the pale skin there. An airy request is all Kurt can offer. "Breakfast?"

"Later." 

**~~~**~~~**

Blaine quietly leads Kurt back upstairs, Peggy Lee fading into the background, an occasional crescendo chasing them. But, Blaine closes the bedroom door behind them and Kurt cocks an eyebrow, privacy hardly a concern. 

"No accompaniment?"

"No." Blaine kisses him again and again, Kurt's face cupped in his hands as he walks him back to the bed. "A capella." Kurt's legs bump against the foot of the bed and they stop. "Just us." With a gentle push, Kurt falls back onto the bed, scooting to the head as Blaine follows him, hovering over him, dipping down to steal a kiss, to nudge his nose into the soft skin of Kurt's neck. "Let me play you, Kurt."

"Oh my god." 

And for the first time since they met, Kurt is completely passive, waiting for Blaine to move, to lead and explore. And there is a wait because right now, Blaine is surveying. His mind flashes to the Steinway in the theater, perfectly crafted, every string taut at its proper tension, only able to fulfill its purpose at the hands of a master, specific in its craftsmanship, original in its response. 

And here is this gorgeous man beneath him, perfectly sculpted, muscled yet lithe, his pale skin flawless and silken with a hint of childhood freckling his shoulders and when close enough – as he is now brushing his lips across the soft skin at the front of each ear – the bridge of his nose. He dots soft dry kisses around the frame of Kurt's face watching as his eyes flutter closed, his lips part and he disappears into Blaine's testing touch.

He takes his time, exploring, discovering the feel and response of each kiss, of each press of his fingers, each shift of his weight. What brings out a sigh, a groan, that deep guttural gust of air that he found quite by accident the previous night as they made love in the dark, twisting sheets and Blaine's entire foundation. 

He whispers questions, _Is that right?_ and _Harder now?_ and _Can I please?_ and finds that Kurt practically purrs when Blaine dots tongue-led kisses along the rarely-touched skin on the underside of his arm. And when he stops at the pulse points of his wrists with a gentle suckle, Kurt arches his entire body to find more connection, his fingers flexing to grab and hold. 

Kurt expresses with motion, with sound, grasping at Blaine's hair, calling softly into the room, rolling Blaine's name in his mouth, slow and drawn, quick and clipped, a constant response to every nudge of inquiry. All the while Blaine catalogues, keeping track so when his lips ghost _that spot_ again – he remembers that _ghosting_ is the key here. And there, his left hip where the musculature begins to form that always sexy V to every man's center, the firm press of his thumb is necessary to make Kurt roll down into the mattress and back, a wave of want and need covered with hisses and pleas for more.

Inch by inch, Blaine plays, his mouth, his fingers, his tongue and breath working over Kurt, slow and fast, soft and hard. And finally, Kurt can only sigh, "You're driving me crazy," laced with a sleepy smile.

"Should I stop?"

"Don't you dare."

And when Blaine dots kisses up Kurt's calf and shin as it drapes over his shoulder, the light brown hair covering Kurt's skin tickling at his nose, he pauses. "Feet?"

"Yes, Blaine. That is my foot." And but for a moment the spell is broken, but with the twinkle in Kurt's eye, the pause is only momentary.

"I mean…do you mind? Some people are weird abo--…"

"Please. My feet. My…god, yes. All of me." And Blaine cradles his foot as a vintage microphone, softly sucking at toes, pressing his thumb along the arch, as Kurt lifts off of the bed, completely vulnerable, totally lost in each new touch, Blaine drawing him out, stringing him across the bed with every suckle and tug and pull.

"You're so fucking beautiful…" And he's next to him now, his hands skirting up Kurt's thighs, rucking his tight t-shirt up over his abdomen then reconsidering, loving how the lines of Kurt's hard cock shadows underneath the thin fabric, hinting and teasing, taunting him to touch and taste. So he pulls it back down, touching through the fabric, pushing Kurt's hands away as they try to lift it back up. 

He wants this extra mystery for a moment more, even though he languished here the previous night. Even though he'd tasted here and already ran his teeth along the tendon of his thigh and that yes, that, _that_ spot on his inner thigh is where, if Blaine bites and sucks just so makes Kurt offer that deep, guttural gust of air that latches onto Blaine's heart and shatters it into a million pieces of pleasure. 

Kurt's grabbing, grabbing, scrabbling at his shoulders, his biceps, trying to get his attention that is entirely too much away from himself and into this amazingly sexy, confident, vibrant man. But then he finds purchase on Blaine's dress shirt, and drags him up, Blaine chuckling at the _please, please, please_ streaming from Kurt's mouth as he slings his legs over Kurt's writhing body.

"Please what, baby?"

"Kiss me. Put your mouth on me. Anything. Anywhere." And Blaine smiles – he _has_ been kissing him everywhere, anywhere already, but he unseats himself from Kurt's hips and grabs hold of his leaking cock, scooping up the droplet with his tongue and swallowing it before sinking his mouth down, wet and hot over the thick weight of Kurt. 

Their combined pleasure rings through the high ceiling of the room, deep and masculine, desperate to fulfill and be fulfilled. Blaine finds his rhythm, finds his song, every swirl of his tongue, every stroke of his hand and mouth, _con brio, con fuoco_ – with fire, with confidence – until Kurt's gasping and digging his nails into Blaine's shoulder closer and closer until Blaine pulls off with a filthy pop and eyes the bottle of lube on the bedside table.

It's in his hand within a blink and Blaine detours to Kurt's mouth as he warms the liquid in his fingers, tracing Kurt's lips with his tongue, speaking _beautiful_ and _the sounds you make_ and _feel so good in my hands_ through his kisses. Kisses Kurt is already too spent to return, just taking, taking, waiting, waiting, his thighs falling open. He reaches out looking for Blaine's hands to soothe him again as he gasps out one final plea.

"Inside. Be inside me, please."

And Blaine coos and soothes, cupping and pressing and rolling, Blaine's mouth arpeggiating kisses and suckles up and down his abdomen as he sinks a finger into Kurt, soothing the hiss with more kisses, laves of his tongue over Kurt's taut nipples and then another finger and finally Kurt can't wait another moment, "Now. My god, please now."

Now is now after all so Blaine appeases, settling between Kurt's milky white thighs, shoving a pillow under his hips and lines himself up, pressing in slow and deliberate, letting Kurt lead only in taking a hand in his, lacing their fingers together as their bodies join again. They're still for moments, breath heavy between them, a long-held rest until quietly in the still room, Kurt pleas, "Play me, Blaine."

And they fall into their synchronized song again as the night before, give and take, more Kurt, more Blaine, their bodies twisting and writhing with the bliss of it, with the ecstasy, with the ebb and flow of it all. Blaine gathers Kurt's legs up and folds over him nuzzling into his neck, tasting the salty sweat as Kurt's body pulses and pushes beneath him, around him. The sounds, the cries, the soft creaking of the mattress fill in and echo around them, a concerto of sex and lust, heat and desire.

Blaine releases Kurt's legs a little and pulls back, wanting to take in his face, taste his mouth again. Their eyes meet, blue and amber, both gold flecked and shining in the morning light and it's Kurt who's reaching out for a tender touch, tracing Blaine's jaw with one long finger.

"I see you in there, you know."

Blaine's measured thrusts stutter as he blinks at Kurt's words. "I…I know." He lowers his head, resting his forehead on Kurt's chin, gathering breath and strength, watching Kurt's cock move between their bodies…bodies and sweat. Sound and touch.

"No, no, no." Kurt brings his hand to Blaine's face, wiping the sweat from his brow, lifting his chin to look back to him. "Don't leave me now."

And Blaine sees honesty there, in Kurt's eyes with the blue shimmer and gold flecks, bright and searching, reaching deep into his soul again and again even now when _he's_ supposed to be the musician. This was to have been Blaine's song to perform. "I'm trying." He languidly pulls out and sinks in again with a deep groan coming from the very heart of him. "I was afraid I'd forgotten."

"But you haven't." Kurt tenderly kisses the tip of Blaine's nose and smiles up at him, raking his fingers through his damp curls. "I see you. You're amazing."

And whether Blaine believes him fully or not, the honesty in Kurt's eyes pushes him over the edge. He sits back on his haunches and hikes Kurt closer, spreading his thighs wide, opening him up to thrust in and in and in, nothing held back, giving everything he has, everything he's lost and finding again as Kurt cries out, taking hold of himself, their eyes locking as their orgasms wash over them, first Blaine, then Kurt still moving and curling into each other, Blaine not pulling out for long moments, in and in and in until he simply can't any longer.

They're a pile of spent limbs, heaving breath, sweaty and sticky and open and vulnerable and oh, so completely satisfied that really, all either of them can do is chuckle at the audacity of it all. The audacity of giving themselves so fully to a virtual stranger, the audacity of not feeling like they're strangers at all – wondering if they really ever were. The audacity to feel this good, this whole, this connected and complete.

Kurt flops a long, exhausted leg over Blaine, pulling him in close to kiss and nuzzle, to trace his fingers across the lips that just played so expertly across his body, a musician making love to his instrument.

"Is the intermission short?" 

**~~~**~~~**

"Now, I _really_ have to go." They have showered. And made out. Made breakfast. And made out some more. Fed each other breakfast, which was really strangely intimate and giggly and divine. 

And made out some more. 

And now Blaine stands in Kurt's kitchen in his freshly pressed dress pants and dress shirt, buttoning up his sleeves as Kurt sips the last of his coffee. He is still bare-assed and topped with that damned tight t-shirt he wore first thing this morning. 

And on his thigh, Kurt's sporting a small circle of matted hair – dried come from the post-shower/pre-breakfast frotting session that ended desperately and quickly, like it would for two virginal boys in rural Ohio. Which they were at one time.

But not anymore.

Which is good because Blaine's thoughts are no longer appropriate for a virginal teenaged boy in rural Ohio.

But now, Kurt is moving in for yet another kiss, "I know. I'm sorry you have to," loose-lipped and tongue-heavy and Blaine groans and pulls back only to nuzzle Kurt's neck, his lips dragging across Kurt's morning scruff as he speaks. 

"I have a special fondness for your tongue."

"It has a special fondness for you," which Kurt shows by drawing it up Blaine's neck to his ear, pulling the soft lobe into his mouth for a gentle suckle. "Will you come to the show tonight?"

His breath is warm in Blaine's ear and he shivers with it, and with what has to be his answer. "I don’t think so." And Kurt sits back, dropping his hands from their grasp on Blaine's head and curls his knees to his chest. And then he pouts. Actually, completely, pathetically pouts. "Maybe."

"You don't get to say _no_ twice to the same question." Kurt gets up and rinses out his coffee cup, the round bottom of his ass cheeks peeking out from under the t-shirt. And he's clearly ticked off.

Blaine blinks the vision away. "What…I don't…Kurt. I don't know what you want from me."

"I'm not sure I want anything _from_ you." He turns and leans against the counter, his expression unreadable. Of course, that might have something to do with the fact that his shirt isn't completely covering him up in the front either.

"Then what, Kurt? _For_ me? Because really, one night and an amazing connection later, you can't just fix this. Me. I'm…I'm not some kind of school project."

And the look that Blaine saw last night – the one he knew he'd never want to see again – is back. Kurt moves out of the kitchen toward the stairs that lead down to the door. Blaine takes the hint and follows him. It's time to go.

"Did you get everything?" 

"I believe so." Blaine pats his jacket slung over his arm and then himself, digging his phone out of his pocket, quickly skimming through the left messages. And with each newly lit screen, the freedom, the vulnerability, the lightening of his spirit that had so glorious begun to take hold begins to slip away. With a sigh, he looks up to Kurt and takes one more risk. "I know you're angry with me, but…can I see you again?"

Kurt studies and stares at Blaine's phone and finally says, "Wait here."

He disappears behind the _humanvaginaflower_ wall and Blaine waits, soon hearing a printer and then Kurt's back, shoving a flyer into his hands. 

[ ](http://dont-be-fancy.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/1336/8181)

"Nathan, our accompanist, is retiring. Maybe this could be your chance to see me _and_ an opportunity to take some of your life back?" 

Blaine reads and re-reads it, unsure what to say, what to think. "Kurt, I can't do this. I'm gone for weeks at a time. I can't commit to something like this."

"You know that's just an excuse."

"It's called a _reason_. A reasonable reason. This is not my life anymore!"

"That's because it's not _your_ life at all!" Kurt huffs and plants a hand on his hip, jutting it out like an impudent child. If Blaine wasn't so exasperated and wanting and conflicted and desperate to find a possible way out of _his_ life, he would laugh at the stubbornness in front of him.

"Kurt, I can't just march into work and demand…I can't…" And his eyes catch Kurt's, wide and aching – not for himself, but for Blaine – and no one's ever given a good god damn before. He remembers these past 18 hours. Dancing and playing in the theater, in this apartment, the music surrounding him, going through Kurt and into him giving him motion again. _E-_ motion again. Life and breath again.

But, he can't change his life on a great hook-up and tempting ideas. "I can't have this life, Kurt. Not anymore."

"Life isn't just black and white, Blaine. There's gray. There's _color_. You deserve color. You _are_ color." 

"It's not that simple."

"It's not that difficult." 

Blaine drapes his tie over his neck and turns to the mirror in the foyer, buttoning his top button. He's at a loss for words. For argument. For logic and reason and everything that clearly is not part of Kurt's way of thinking.

He hears Kurt sigh behind him, "Turn around." So he does and Kurt is batting Blaine's hands away from the beginning of the full Windsor knot he's started, looking at Blaine and pleading. The soft skin of Kurt's hands are brushing up against Blaine's freshly shaven neck until the last slip of the knot is complete, the tip of his tie resting perfectly at the waist of his pants. "Tell me the last 18 hours haven't made some sort of difference to you and I'll leave you alone."

"I can't tell you that." Blaine turns and looks in the mirror making a mostly unnecessary adjustment. He looks up at Kurt's reflection and wants to smile. Wants this to end with a kiss and a promise, but…"Why is this so important to you?"

"Why _isn't_ it important to you?"

"It's not that…it's…" He turns and takes Kurt's hands in his. "It's fucking complicated."

"It's really not. No one else should be telling you what to do with your life, Blaine. You're not in college anymore. It's time for you to take charge."

Blaine sighs, defeated and frustrated and simply wanting a coffee date without having to promise to rearrange his life to get one. "I can't fix the mess of my life while standing here. Today. Just…" His phone buzzes on the table beneath the mirror, and he ignores it, shoving it into his coat pocket. 

"Will you at least _take_ the flyer? You'll be in town that weekend, right?"

"I will." He looks down at the paper again and sighs, folding it into his chest pocket. "I just want…will I see you again?"

Kurt slips his hand into Blaine's pocket and pulls out his phone, typing in his number and putting it back. "You know where to find me."

Blaine leans up and kisses Kurt softly, jogging down the few stairs to the door. He peeks out and sees his cab, rolling his eyes at the idiocy of it – of course this one would be on time – and knocks out a cigarette from its packet. With one foot out the door, he turns back, taking in the most beautiful man he's ever seen. "I could fall in love with you, you know."

"You don't even know me."

"I know enough to know that I could fall in love with you."


	3. III. Rhythm

_"I could fall in love with you, you know."_

_Kurt feels the cool autumn air wash into the apartment and for the first time since he met Blaine, he feels naked. Exposed. "You don't even know me."_

_"I know enough to know that I could fall in love with you."_

And Blaine walks out, closes the door with a soft click, leaving Kurt chilled. Vulnerable. And so completely wanting, he isn't sure how to move from that spot. 

_I'll be here waiting to catch you…_

Kurt takes that feeling and pockets it for the remainder of the weekend. For the show that night where Blaine is not in attendance. For the next day – a simple Sunday – when Blaine never calls. Really, is the idea of having a nice brunch together so ridiculous? 

For the following day when Kurt knows Blaine is back at his Columbus office and again the day after that when Blaine gets back on an airplane and goes god-knows-where to heal everyone else's frayed lives, totally forgetting about his own.

Because, it seems, that is what Blaine does. 

And Kurt can't, for the life of him, figure out why he cares so fucking much. Why the utter defeat he saw flash in Blaine's eyes when his cigarette didn't light – for the simple fault of an empty lighter – struck Kurt's heart and didn't let it go. Why when he saw him sitting in the theater, relaxed and entertained, he was drawn to Blaine like a dissonant chord pulled to its most consonant resolution. 

But, when Kurt remembers having his arms around Blaine, remembers the baritone of his voice when he spoke, remembers the weight of Blaine's body moving in synchronicity with his own as they coasted along the black box floor, then Kurt understands. Remembering Blaine's eyes springing to life when he strutted out in the ridiculous World War II airman's garb, catching Blaine staring throughout the remainder of the show, Kurt _gets_ the attraction. That clinging, magnetic attraction.

But, after the show, Kurt feared he'd never see him again. He'd refresh himself, change and head home. End of encounter. 

But then, there was more music that drew him back to the stage. And somehow – maybe because sometimes hope is bigger than reality – Kurt believed the pianist was his man. That man. 

Yes, _that_ man because Blaine isn't _his_ , is he? He was for those 18 glorious hours, but it is clear in Blaine's subsequent silence that no, Blaine isn't Kurt's. 

And Blaine isn't his own either.

Which brings Kurt's thoughts right back to where they began. Blaine's life isn't his own and Kurt cares. And Kurt doesn't know why.

 _I'm not some kind of school project,_ he'd said. And it hurt. It hurt because there is a really strong possibility that without thinking about it, that's exactly how Kurt is looking at it all. A cause to get behind. A life in which to make a difference. An opportunity to shine in someone else's eyes – someone whose eyes are real and intimate and will appreciate his special blend of coffee and that his Hollandaise is always perfectly emulsified and will appreciate the joke of his incredibly expensive Georgia O'Keefe hanging in his living room.

Someone whose fingers will make his skin burn, just as he'd wondered in the theater while watching Blaine play. Watching the deftness of each finger's motion, the strength for _forte_ , the tender touch for _pianissimo_ , the lilt and lift to pull music from each ivory key.

Someone who will not only find that he loves to have a tongue lave across the length of his clavicle but finds that truth, does it and relishes in doing it as much as Kurt relishes in having it done. Someone who knows the difference between making love and fucking – and even better? Knows how to do _both_ when both are absolutely necessary. Someone who listens to his moans and cries and responds in kind and then later moans and cries so exquisitely that Kurt innately knows how to respond – to please.

And there it is. 

Kurt doesn't want a school project. He wants a partner. A companion. A lover. A friend.

In a matter of eighteen hours, Blaine went from being that really hot guy with the whiskey-colored eyes to a sensitive, kind man who loves Peggy Lee and surreal art and Kurt's citrus-scented cologne. In eighteen hours, Blaine, even in his perpetual state of Eeyore-hood, strung twinkle lights all over the empty spaces in Kurt's life – empty spaces that Kurt so exquisitely tries to keep hidden from the world – and illuminated them with warmth and affection, pianist's fingers and dancer's perfect form. 

And then, with great skill and aplomb, Kurt put the ball in Blaine's court and watched him walk out the door without any way of finding him again. 

And clearly, Blaine isn't playing ball.

**~~~**~~~**

"Just tell me you have info access to all of the ticket buyers from Friday's show. Stop asking me questions."

Kurt can feel the bitchiness prickle up his back and instead of tamping it down – which is his _modus operandi_ now that he is what is otherwise known as an adult – he's struggling with it. The man in front of him is not his subordinate. In fact, he's not even on staff at the theater. He's a fellow board member of the Men's Glee and the guy with the money. And, at the moment, the guy with the answers.

"Yes, Kurt. I do. But I don't think I can give you that without board approval."

"I'm the fucking president of the board." Kurt starts flipping through pages on his treasurer's desk, not even sure what the hell he's looking for, but figuring he'll never find it unless he tries.

"Kurt." Scott smacks his hand on Kurt's to stop his snooping. "You're being obnoxious. What is it you want so desperately?"

"I just need one. Just one, Scott. Can't you give me that?"

Scott deflates – which is quite a sight considering how huge Scott really is – and Kurt claps giddily. He'd have shame in that except he's spent the last five days moping around like a wilted flower and it is time to find a little joy, no matter how small. Giddy clapping is in order.

"What's the name? I'll look and see if we have anything. Why is this so important anyway?"

"Never you mind. Anderson. Blaine. He was here Friday night."

Scott starts to flip through receipts from Friday's show and his eyes light up. "Wait. He's that hottie you were practically throwing yourself at, isn't he?"

"Look for the receipt, Scott."

And before Scott gets to the final stack, realization dawns on Kurt and he tentatively squeezes at Scott's shoulder. "Shit. Never…never mind. I'm fucked." He sinks into the ratty chair in the corner of the back office and buries his face in his hands. "I'm completely fucked."

"What? Am I still looking? Are you…do you need some aspirin or something? You don't look so good."

"No. Stop looking. He didn't buy a ticket. And I'm fine. I'm just…the biggest idiot in central Ohio that's all. I can deal with that title." He splays out in the chair and stares at the ceiling deciding he needs to start clamoring for some reserve funds to get that gawd-awful suspended ceiling tile fixed. It's appalling. 

"You didn't give him your number, did you?"

"I did. He hasn't called."

"Kurt…that might be—"

"I'm not listening to you, Scott. Don't you have some season ticket holders to cater to or something?"

"Yes, but you're in my office being an amazingly huge distraction."

"Ignore me."

"I can't. Your shirt is reminding me of a Spirograph and I’m having PTSD."

"I'm not even going to ask for an explanation. I'm leaving. You win. Thanks anyway." And Kurt moans and groans his way out of the chair that had suddenly threatened to swallow him and makes his leave. Almost. "For the record, the Spirograph shirt is Burberry and probably cost more than any PTSD therapy you might need."

"You're obnoxious when you're lonely, Kurt. Go get laid."

"That's what got me in this mess to begin with. I'm thinking of living a life of celibacy."

"And I'm thinking of finally getting therapy. Get out of my office."

Which Kurt does because he has to run thoughts through his head. It's not like he's been able to work at all this week. And tomorrow will be one week after he met Blaine. And one week where he lost one week's worth of productivity and probably gained five years' worth of gray hair and wrinkles. He'd know if he could bring himself to actually look in the mirror longer than it takes him to brush his teeth. He's a mess and he knows it and he's irritated with himself because for the love of _god_ , it was one stinking night.

He's had one-night-stands before and from what Blaine said, that was pretty much his entire sexual existence. Blaine's were bar pick-ups, conference hook-ups, Kurt's sex life is more club hook-ups and casual dating experiences with friends of friends, but when you break it all down, it's all just nameless and faceless. 

Why was _that_ night – that glorious night – so amazingly perfect and wonderful and why in the world did he push the _take control of your life_ storyline? No wonder the guy ran.

But, Kurt can't let that be the end of it, so he goes with facts. Numbered. Because it's controllable that way.

[ ](http://dont-be-fancy.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/1336/8322)

And with the common name of Anderson, it's not like calling all of the potential communities is even remotely reasonable.

Although, he considers it for about 5 minutes. And then he walks away from his notes to find something more productive to do. Like alphabetizing his spice cabinet.

By _day nine_ of his mental anguish, he realizes:

[ ](http://dont-be-fancy.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/1336/8644)

Granted, the theater company option has potential, but there are so many little splintered groups that...

It all begins to feel like he's chasing a ghost. And chasing is just not something Kurt does. 

Blaine – as much as he seemed to be into Kurt, now nine nights ago – obviously is no longer interested.

Of course, there is always the possibility that he _never_ had been interested. But, that just means he's a better actor than Kurt could have imagined which leads him right back to the overwhelming desire to get him out of his father's grip and back onto the stage, into the arts, in control of his life and why…

… _why_ is this so important to Kurt?

Because. After only eighteen hours, after only one night, he could see himself falling in love with Blaine too.

And he wants the person he falls in love with to be a whole person if that is going to happen. And the man he met nine nights ago?

Is not whole.

The problem is, Kurt suddenly isn't so sure he is either.

**~~~**~~~**

"Can someone tell me why we're not getting these resumes in order of appearance?"

"Because we have a new intern who is clearly illiterate. Learn to adapt."

Kurt sighs and fans through the 20 or so resumes and gives up, tossing them onto the table in front of him. "Who hired him?"

"That'd be me. Which is why you'll learn to adapt. Who do we have next?"

"How do I know? This shit isn't in order!" 

The truth of the matter is, the quality of talent that is coming through is leaving much to be desired. And they're both irritated. Stuart, the director of the Men's Glee, simply wants someone who can play with or without music, can take direction, and can follow. Someone who knows when to be a showman and when to be an accompanist without being told.

Kurt wants someone so amazing that he'll forget he ever heard – or felt – Blaine Anderson play.

"Just call for the next one. We'll figure it out."

"Jesus." Kurt picks up the stack and starts casually putting them in alphabetical order as he calls for the next candidate. "NEXT!” He hears footsteps as he continues his alphabetizing. _L-M-N-O – how old do I have to be to remember P comes after O? "_ Name…and one sentence that will make us want to hire you." 

Stuart flashes Kurt a glare and Kurt sticks his tongue out at him and whispers, "What? If they can't articulat--."

"Blaine Anderson."

Kurt's head snaps up and there he is. "Oh god." And he's stunning. Casual. Simple dockers, rolled up at the ankle, a striped Henley t-shirt and curls crowning his head, lush and shiny and Kurt thinks that maybe there are diamonds in Blaine's eyes. Topaz? Jewels. They shimmer.

"And, um…a sentence." Blaine leans against the curve of the grand piano and Kurt tries to get his heart back into a normal sinus rhythm. It's not going well. "I thought I didn't know how to breathe anymore, but…I think I've found a way to start again; this is it."

"You…" Kurt gulped and swallowed down the rush of happiness, anxiety, joy, fear that are twisting through his system like a Tilt-A-Whirl at the carnival. "You may begin." Kurt leans over to Stuart to whisper, "This is our man."

"We haven't even hear—"

"This is our man."

"You do remember you don't get the final say here, right?"

"You'll be telling me I was right in about two minutes."

Kurt turns his attention back to the stage as Blaine nods and takes his seat at the Steinway – The Steinway. He adjusts the bench and places his hands and as Kurt catches what might possibly be his own last breath on this earth, Blaine begins to play.

He starts with a 40's-style vamp and goes straight into popular swing tunes. _String of Pearls_ seamlessly morphing into _Begin the Beguine, Rhapsody in Blue_ taking them to a new section and unfolding, miraculously so, into _Candyman_ , complete with the call and response that Kurt and Stuart join in on before they realize what they're doing. 

_Tarzan and Jane were swinging on a vine_

Swing moves into classical with Vivaldi's _Four Seasons_ (Spring, Kurt thinks) and then Mozart's _Piano Concerto, No. 21._ The finale of Beethoven's _Fifth Symphony_ twirls them into a pop montage of Katy Perry and Lady Gaga and songs that Kurt and Stuart know from the current radio, but couldn't name if given the chance. Blaine ties it all up with a reprise of _Candyman,_ slipping in the classical and pop stylings they'd already heard. 

It is two solid minutes of musical genius. 

"Write this down, Hummel because I'll never say it again—"

"You know what? Don't even say it. I'd rather hear it when I don't know it's coming." Kurt smiles to the stage, knowing Blaine can't see him, but also knowing Blaine _sees_ him. And it feels amazing. "Thank you very much. We'll let you know by the end of business tomorrow."

Kurt watches Blaine leave the stage and fights every urge within him to run after him. He does, however, grab his resume, typing Blaine's number into his phone. 

"Since when do _you_ notify?"

"Since today. I'll tell everyone else to go home."

"Might as well. Do I want to know how you knew about this guy?"

"I've heard him play." And when he feels Stuart's probing glare, he amends as he leaves, "And that's all you need to know."

**~~~**~~~**

Ideally, Kurt should wait until Monday to notify _their new accompanist_ of his position, but he is never one who goes along with convention – no sense starting now. He does have the decency to wait an hour. And to keep it somewhat professional.

To start. 

"Do I start apologizing now or later?"

"Is this how you typically answer the phone, Mr. Anderson?" Kurt has to bite back a smiled lilt to his voice because truly, this man could not be more adorable. And, he made Kurt wait for two weeks; he was going to have to sweat it out a little. 

Blaine chuffs and tries again. "Hello, Mr. Hummel."

"Hello. I'm calling on behalf of the Central Ohio Gay Men's Glee. We would like to invite you to join us for rehearsal next Sunday at 7pm as a final step to becoming our new accompanist."

"Oh. Yes, I'd be happy to be there. Do I need to bring anything with me?" 

"Just your magical fing—" Kurt takes a deep breath and tries that again. "No. This will just be a formality with the group." Kurt finds himself physically reaching his hand out to touch. He's aching for this man. This man he has known for only hours, longed for for weeks. "You impressed Stuart. No one impresses Stuart."

"Thank…you?"

"You're welcome." Kurt imagines the pause looming between them wouldn't be as uncomfortable in person as it is on the phone. If nothing else, he'd be resting in Blaine's whiskey-colored eyes, but at the moment—

"Will you have drinks with me tonight?"

And Kurt decides a three-minute wait is a sufficient exchange for a two-week one, breathing out an answer faster than his mind can catch up with what his mouth is saying. "Meet me at Union in 45 minutes."

When Kurt sees Blaine standing with the host at the front of the bar, he fights every urge to run to him. To make a scene and throw his arms around him and scoop him off of the floor and spin him around like they are in some pathetic rom-com. In a field of daffodils. With blurred edges.

He doesn't do that, instead patiently watching as Blaine makes his way across the busy floor to the corner booth at the back wall of the bar. And after ordering drinks – Kurt, a vodka cranberry and Blaine, another whiskey sour – he kisses Blaine's cheek and begins. 

"You didn't call."

"I know. I'm sorry. I needed time." 

"Did you get enough?"

"Time?"

"Yes. I sort of made an ass of myself trying to find you." The waiter brings their drinks and they both toss back larger swallows than are probably proper, chuckling as they catch each other in the act. 

"Wait. You actually looked for me?"

"Yes. I'm not particularly proud of it, but yes." Blaine's smile is genuine. And bright. And Kurt wants to kiss it right off of his face. "I never wanted to say goodbye."

"I'm sorry I made you think—I just needed—" Blaine sighs and scoops Kurt's hand in his. "I'm here now."

"I'm really glad." Kurt begins tracing the lines of Blaine's hand – the hands that make music pour out of not only an exquisite instrument made of wood and wire, but also a wanting man made of bone and heart. 

But, as much as he'd love to feel those hands make music all over him again, he aims for business first, figuring the bar patrons would also appreciate that decision. "So, the gig. It's a weekly obligation for nine months, plus performances. Can you do that with your job?"

"I quit."

Kurt drops Blaine's hand. "I didn't think you needed to take control _that_ drastically!"

"But see, I did. Which is why it was complicated. And I've hurt my mother – which I need to fix – but, I have my life back. Or, I'm working on it anyway."

"What will you do for work?"

"I have plenty of savings and…" Blaine smiles and scoops Kurt's hand up again. "I have an interview on Wednesday with CAPA – in development."

Kurt gapes, then smiles, then tries to speak and has to try two more times before he states the obvious. "Columbus Association for the Performing Arts. You gave it _all_ up."

"I did. It's sort of why I needed some time." 

"You know non-profits don't pay much?"

"I do. I don't need much – just enough. They pay enough."

Kurt smiles, disbelief still thrumming through him. "You also know they control most of my theater's funding?"

"I do. You don't mind me holding the professional purse strings, do you?"

"Just the professional ones." Blaine is trailing a finger up and down Kurt's arm, which he follows with his eyes until Blaine's gaze is too hot to ignore. Blaine hadn't forgotten. Or kissed him off. Or said goodbye. He is sitting here, touching him, ogling him, the air crackling and popping around them, building a bubble around their booth – and all Kurt can see is Blaine.

Blaine, whose demeanor is straighter, his smile brighter – so amazingly bright – his touch more assured. Blaine is free and Kurt doesn't want to do anything but journey right alongside of him. "So, now what?"

"Now, I try to make up these last two weeks to you. Ask your forgiveness one more time."

"Granted."

Blaine smiles and brings Kurt's hand up to kiss a fingertip. "And ask you to dinner."

"L'Antibes, tomorrow at eight."

Another smile, a kiss to another fingertip. "I'd take you to a show, but everything's dark on Mondays…" 

"Rain checks work."

Blaine kisses a third fingertip and scoots just a little closer into the corner of the booth. "And then, I'll take you back to my place." A fourth fingertip. "And I'll order a tray of long-stemmed chocolate covered strawberries." Kurt watches as Blaine turns Kurt's hand in his and begins on his knuckles, the soft curves of his lips curling perfectly around each raised bump. "We'll take them to bed." Kiss. "Feed each other." Kiss. "And stay there _all_ night." Kiss. "And maybe into the morning, because I'm sure you have some vacation days."

Kurt swallows thickly, hoping he has a voice when he opens his mouth. "Funny that. I actually do."

"Good. Because I really, really need to make sure I'm on a soft surface for when I land."

"When you land?"

Blaine smiles and starts to scoot out of the booth, tugging at Kurt's hand when he catches his questioning gaze. 

Kurt follows without further question, and Blaine tosses money on the bar, pointing to their empty booth as they leave. They step outside and the crisp autumn air swirls around them, a few leaves spinning into a mini-cyclone at the edge of the neighboring alley. Blaine pulls Kurt into him and nuzzles a gentle Eskimo kiss, while Kurt waits on an answer. "When I land from falling, silly. Falling in love with you." 

Kurt sucks in a rush of air, cold in his throat, warmed again as he exhales and relaxes fully into Blaine's arms. "Oh, yes. That."

"Yes. That." Blaine nudges another Eskimo kiss and presses a soft, dry kiss to Kurt's cheek. "I know when you're falling, they say don't look down but I've dared to look anyway." 

"And?"

"And, I don't have much further to go."

Kurt closes the small distance between them, pulling Blaine in even closer as their lips meet, perfect and soft, another swirl of leaves rushing just beyond them, making them grasp tighter, kiss deeper, a quick sweep of their tongues before it's only the softness of their lips again. "Maybe…maybe you'll land a little early?"

"I think maybe I just did."

~fin


End file.
